


I Wanted to Be Allowed to Keep You

by monopolizeme



Series: He Was Pointing At the Moon but I Was Looking At His Hand [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild non-con, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:02:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monopolizeme/pseuds/monopolizeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I wanted to save you,” Stiles says. He means to say more. But he can't get the words past his throat.  I wanted to be better. I wanted to be someone that you could <i>rely</i> on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wanted to Be Allowed to Keep You

It’s dark when Stiles comes to, his skull throbbing with brutal aggression. There is cement beneath his shoes, an empty harsh echo that reverberates when he’s conscious enough to hear himself breathing, the sound of his heart slamming against his ribs, panic bubbling in his throat and he’s twisting his head around frantically, trying to _see_ because _where is Derek, where is he_ and _ohmygod if they-_

“Derek?”

The room is cast in shadows, swelling darkness that seems alive and there is a rank musky smell filling his nostrils, that familiar metallic taste against his tongue and he thinks that his mouth might be filled with blood. He is faintly aware of the heat radiating on the left side of his cheek. There is that sense-memory of throbbing flesh and broken skin and the way his left  eye is a little too swollen at the outer-edge, as if being struck hard by a closed fist. He knows that sensation all too well.

His wrists hurt. They hurt and splice with pain when he tries to shift his arms and that causes a shock of agony to snake through his muscles, stiff and clenched tight and drawn away from his body. His eyelids slowly flutter open, but it’s difficult, as if his eyelashes have matted together and he feels the tiny hairs pull and tug in protest. He tries to gain purchase of his body, make sure he’s still all properly attached. His fingers feel numb but he can move them, and that’s good; his wrists are bound with something sharp and much too hard and he thinks that it may be a plastic binding of sorts, feels his bones grind together, so he gives up trying to pull them free. He’s slowly becoming aware that he’s bound to a hard steel chair, arms drawn back and tied tightly to the cold hard back; and he’s bent over, panting slowly and heavily above his knees, his spine curved, as his mouth hangs open. When he swallows it feels as if he had been choking on sandpaper for god knows how long and he coughs, tries to gather saliva in his mouth.

“Derek?” he chokes out, blinking away the fog that seems trapped against his eyes.

There is a grunt in return and Stiles turns his face in the direction of where he thinks the sound may have come from. It’s awkward and the strain in his neck reminds him that he had claws digging into his throat earlier and so he shuffles the chair around, twisting in an arch until he can see Derek who is somewhere in the room, he knows it but it’s too dark and there is a small window in the far right side of the room but it’s covered in too much grime.

“Derek? Is that you? I think I can see-“

And then he doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want to be _abl_ e to see and he wants to be wrong and he squeezes his eyes shut because he thinks that the person strung up in the corner of the room is Derek, arms stretched taut above his head, hands curled limply against the strain of rope twisting around his wrists.

“Please, tell me you’re alright. Oh god, _Derek_ , say something please, you need to tell me you’re _alright._ ” The words spill messily from Stiles’ mouth and he’s going to become hysterical if Derek doesn’t _say_ something, he just knows it.

Light floods upon them suddenly, harsh and unexpected and Stiles sucks in a tight breath, snapping his face away and trying to curl into himself. There are spots behind his eyes and his body feels hot from the flush of light glaring upon him.

Derek grunts again but the sound is so small, not enough anger that so usually encompasses Derek when threatened and Stiles grits his teeth and forces his eyes open and Derek slowly comes into focus, a sharp line shadowed on the outskirts of the flood light.

“Derek.” Stiles whispers, mouth dry again at the sight of Derek’s ragged shirt, torn and hanging in tattered strips from his chest and Stiles is shaking because there are fresh gaping wounds sliced across Derek’s stomach and throat, jagged flesh still _bleeding_ and why isn’t he _healing?_ His eyes trail upwards, hoping to meet Derek’s gaze but his head is slumped forward and his wrists are clotted with blood dripping slowly down his naked arms.  Strange wisps of lavender smoke snake from the ropes around Derek’s wrists.

“Why won’t you heal?” Stiles’ voice is broken, he doesn’t mean for it to sound so weak but he doesn’t know if Derek is dying in front of him, because that is _wolfsbane_ curling around Derek’s limp body and Stiles remembers the panic in Derek’s eyes when Scott had been trapped choking on the deadly powder.

Something shifts in the corner of the room and Stiles realizes that they are not alone and _of course_ they wouldn’t be alone and why hadn’t he thought to check his surrounding first.

The shadows detatch themselves, move forwards to form into the figure of a man, clothed in a soft black shirt and jeans and leather shoes that gleam against the dirt-scuffed ground. Stiles frowns in confusion and for a moment he thinks, _Peter?_ but that is wrong, so very wrong and the man is taller, slender and lithe with pale skin and blond hair combed neatly behind his ears. But he moves like Peter, elegant shift of limbs and his face is almost beautiful, grey eyes that glitter above a smile that pulls easily at his lips. 

He settles in front of Stiles, knees bending as he crouches down to the ground.

“So, an Alpha and a boy,” he regards Stiles. He arches up a brow with condescending ambivalence.  “Not the most effective plan when trying to infiltrate another pack’s territory.”

Stiles grits his teeth.

“Who are you?”

The man raises his brows eloquently.

“Oh, please, call me Daniel.”

Stiles tugs at the plastic fastened tightly around his wrists and bites out, “We’re not trying to take over anything. We’re just on a road trip. We didn’t know this place belonged to a pack.”

Daniel doesn’t seem to be interested in believing Stiles and asks, “Where is the rest of your pack?”

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s just us. Didn’t you hear the first time? We’re not trying to take over anything.”

Daniel laughs softly.

 “That’s what your Alpha said. How many are there? In your pack?”

Stiles presses his lips together, right leg jiggling and his eyes flicker to Derek.

“Why don’t you ask him?”

That handsome smile doesn’t falter.

 “We did. He’s not a chatty type though. And his body is all too familiar with torture. He won’t yield.”

“Then I guess you’re stuck with nothing then.” replies Stiles, doing his best not to focus on the mention of _torture_ , because Stiles is feeling a little sick over the fact that Derek might have been tormented while Stiles was unconscious only a few feet away.

The man gives a small chuckle, his eyes sliding down to the blade in his hands. _Stiles’_ blade _._ He pulls it easily from its sheath.

“Tell me, boy, are you familiar with pain?”

“I’ve had my share,” Stiles says stiffly.

“Why are you here?” Daniel asks, ignoring the quip.

“I told you –“

“That’s Derek Hale.”  He says, and Stiles stiffens, eyes darting to Derek.

“How-“

Daniel holds up a driver’s license between two slender fingers.

“The Hale family is well known this side of the coast. Well, at least, they _were_. When they still _existed_. Now tell me, why would the last remaining Hale be traveling around another pack’s territory with a human child? That’s not very clever is it.”

Stiles grits his teeth harder. He’s beginning to sense that this conversation is going to spiral into some kind of horrible repetitive useless flux of words with demands that he cannot possibly appease.

“It was just a simple road trip. A boring one, to be perfectly honest, not effective in any terms of amusement whatsoever-“

“An Alpha who on occasion joins the company of a Hunter. An _Argent_ Hunter, which is very amusing to me, seeing that the Argents are responsible for the destruction of the Hale family.”

“That wasn’t Chris,” insists Stiles, stupidly since that doesn’t even _matter_. “The family – okay, maybe they’ve got a few screws loose but Kate was the fucked up one. Chris is – Derek hasn’t gone all Alpha rogue and joined a Hunter, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Daniel gives an easy shrug, as if it doesn’t matter to him either way.

“People have snapped for lesser things. Not sure how stable Derek is - losing your family like that can really toy with a man’s sense of reality, you know?”

Stiles doesn’t answer.

“He’s mated with you, hasn’t he?”

Stiles feels his mouth go dry and he draws back slightly, doesn’t _mean_ to but this- this suddenly doesn’t feel right.

“You reek of him, I can smell it – and you’re, you’re all  _ove_ r him. I do not know how he stands it. You smell like boy and human sweat – it’s repulsive, really.”

Stiles seethes quietly, because he wants Daniel to stay distracted by his own voice but Derek has not lifted his head, not once and Stiles is trying his best to gauge if Derek is even still breathing.

Daniel catches the movement, follows Stiles’ eyes over his shoulder.

“Him? Oh, he’s fine. Tried to bite one of my beta’s before, rather nasty you know, so we had to make sure he was… muzzled.”

Stiles would make a comment about that rather _lame_ use of a dog joke but one of the betas, a young girl who looks like she might be Stiles’ age is walking up to Derek. There is a mask tied around her lower face and Stiles doesn’t understand why that is, only he doesn’t have time to think about it because then she is grasping the back of Derek’s hair and there are fucking _claws_ involved. She yanks back his head.

Derek growls sharply, but the sound is too muffled and Derek is breathing hard through his nose, eyes stained red. There is a thick strip of duck tape across his mouth. But his cheeks look slightly bulged and there is something wrong with his throat, his throat doesn’t look right, too many bumps in the normally smooth expanse of his skin.

Daniel’s eyes slide back to Stiles, observing his reaction and Stiles knows that he is being watched but he can’t tear his eyes away from Derek.

“What did you do?” he whispers.

“Just something to keep him quiet,” says Daniel softly. He nods to the female, and Stiles notices that her left hand is gloved as she retrieves a rolled up rag from the table. It hangs heavily from her hand, and there is that familiar violet smoke rising from the edges.

Stiles pales.

“You soaked it in wolfsbane.”

Daniel’s mouth tugs at the corner.

“You soaked it with _wolfsbane?_ ” Stiles exclaims, his voice rising and pitching in cold horror and he is struggling wildly against his bonds, trying to get free although that is so utterly pointless and the hard-edged plastic is digging into his wrists and tearing at the skin. “You’re going to kill him! How is he supposed to breathe with that in his mouth-“

“Relax, Stiles.” Daniel says easily, hand resting on Stiles’ shoulder as if he is consoling a child. “He’s an Alpha. He’ll live. Painfully, but he can take it.”

He gives a careless wave of his other hand.

“Now enough about him. Let’s get back to you.”

“I already told you everything-“

“No, I think that you can be a lot more talkative than that.” he says, his voice sliding smoothly over the words.

“Damn it-“

Daniel’s grip on his shoulder tightens, crushing into his bone and Stiles gasps and twists with the hold, pain bursting behind his eyes and he braces for the crack of bone-

“How many of there are you.” It’s not a question anymore.

“The fuck- are we really doing that again?”

“ _How many._ ” His voice is steely now.

Stiles all but shouts in frustration, voice breaking as it always does when he loses control and goes frantic.

 “No one! It’s just the two of us, god damn it, what do you want me to do? Do you want me to lie? Do you want me to say that we drove 1100 miles just to scout out a sleazy motel in hopes of claiming it for our own?”

Daniel doesn’t seem to appreciate Stiles’ tone, or possibly the overused sarcasm and Stiles isn’t too surprised by that, but he still cries out when the Alpha’s claws extract and break through skin and scrape against the surface of bone and veins.

 Derek snarls, jerks at the ropes and Stiles watches as the violet curls of smoke burst from the broken flesh of his arms.

“Derek, no,” he chokes out and his voice sounds so wet.

“How many?”

“ _Fuck you._ ”

Daniel laughs, and it sounds so calm and easy, as if he isn’t offended in the slightest.

He surges forwards and presses his mouth against Stiles’ ear and Stiles stiffens away on instinct. ~~  
~~

“Maybe I should just play with you, instead.” Daniel muses.  “I’ve seen the mark on your neck, that’s quite a sporting trophy, if I do say. So you like it rough, do you, little Stiles?”

He feels, for possibly the first time that night, that real sensation of fear creeping up his spine, spreading out through his veins and that chilling damp sweat that breaks out at the back of his neck because he knows what Daniel means, knows what he is implying, knows what he intends.

Derek seems to sense it too. He makes a low grating sound in the back of his throat and Stiles is breathing though his mouth, neck arched as Daniel gently coaxes his head back.

“You’d like it, wouldn’t you.” Daniel murmurs against his skin, “If I took you like he does. Or maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe that would be the very thing to make you tell me the truth.”

“I _am_ ,” Stiles insists, the words breaking from his mouth. He knows it is pointless, knows that Daniel will not believe him regardless of what he says but he doesn’t know what else to do, because there is a hand on his thigh, long slender fingers that do not feel familiar curling around his leg.

“I’ve never mated with a human before.”

Daniel’s perfect mouth hovers above Stiles’ skin, slides down the length of his neck with excruciating slowness and Stiles cannot hear the noises that Derek makes from the pounding of his own heart.

Stiles is trembling, he’s trying not to, really but he’s only ever been touched by Derek and that has always felt good, so wonderfully good and exciting. He never thought it could feel like this, like his skin is trying to crawl off his own body, the swell of nausea that pushes up the back of his throat, the acid that burns and stings his tongue.

Stiles tells himself that he can take this, because he can, because if Derek can endure being tortured and breathing down wolfsbane for god knows how long, then Stiles can handle this, he _can_ , no matter how awful it may be.

Daniel scrapes his teeth along the curve of Stiles’ throat, and there are fangs involved, he feels the tiny pricks into his skin and he shivers because _god_ , if he ends up becoming a werewolf out of all of this – not even by Derek –

Then the fangs flatten into blunt human teeth and they are breaking into his skin, _hard_ and Stiles cries out and arches from the chair, his feet pressing into the ground and he tries to twist desperately from Daniel’s claiming mouth.  Daniel flattens his hand against Stiles' stomach, pinning him to the chair as his fingers dig painfully into Stiles’ skin, under his shirt and Stiles tries to focus on his own breathing, which is so loud. It feels like the air in the room is tightening around him, or expanding – there’s too much of it and not enough and all Stiles can think is, _no no, please no, not while Derek is here to see._

Derek’s boots are a mad scramble against the floor; he can hear them, distantly, somewhere far away because Stiles is trying to pull out of his body, trying to go somewhere else, anywhere else but here in this body that doesn’t feel like his own.

Daniel’s wet tongue laps gently against his skin, sucks on the wrecked flesh.

“How eager,” Daniel remarks in amusement. “You like being _ruined_.”

Stiles makes a small whine in the back of his throat as Daniel’s fingers crook beneath the waistband of his jeans, nimble fingers sliding the zipper _down_ and Derek snarls, lurching forwards but Stiles refuses to look, cannot look Derek in the eyes, cannot.

“You’re in love with him.”

Stiles freezes because that – that was not what he was expecting.

“You’re in love with him. Your Alpha.”

Stiles wets his mouth. “He’s not my-“

Daniel pulls away very slowly, looking into Stiles’ face as he drags his hand out of Stiles’ pants, fingers brushing.

Stiles is still aware of how close the man is to him, the slightly minty damp air that ghosts across his parted lips.

“You are going to leave, tonight. You’re going to leave from here and I am never going to scent either of you two again. Is this understood?”

Stiles nods, numbly, because this doesn’t make sense, not at all and his shoulder hurts painfully as he feels Daniel slide his claws from Stiles’ flesh. He winces at the pull and drag of tattered skin, the way his muscle clings to the long gruesome nails as they pull out.

“Do not move from this chair until we have left, do you understand? If you try to do so, even a fraction, before said time, I will slice him open and you will watch me do it and I will tear out your throat when it is done.” His voice is very soft. “Do you understand this, Stiles.”

He nods, again.

Daniel gives a gentle smile and a slow incline of his chin. He leans in closer and Stiles inhales sharply, body stiffening because maybe that was all a trick, a lie, some kind of mind fucking before the actual-

He exhales deeply as he feels the plastic wires break from his wrists, the quiet clatter they make as they settle to the floor.

“Watch out for your Alpha,” Daniel says, and then he is on his feet, a graceful elegant movement that Stiles might think was beautiful. He holds his breath, because now that his body is not being held in place Stiles is terrified that he might just collapse onto the floor.

He is on his feet immediately when the door closes, scrabbling frantically at the loose ropes that still snake around his arms and he stumbles his way towards Derek, running as if the floor might open up and swallow them both before he can even reach him.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” he is saying, rambling, and he might be crying because his cheeks feel wet and he can’t see, it’s so _fucking blurry_ – “This is going to hurt, maybe, I think, I’m sorry but I have to-“

Derek grunts, his eyes narrowed and Stiles thinks that may be from the pain he is already enduring and this is stupid _, just get on with it Stiles_.

His fingers grip at the edge of the tape, but his fingernails are bitten too short and he realizes that they are slippery from blood. He makes a frustrated sound at the back of his throat and then he manages to snag the edge and he is ripping in quick, short strokes.

A thin curve of metal clatters to the floor when Stiles tosses away the tape and Stiles has only a moment to think about that because Derek lets out a snarl, tight and fierce but it still sounds muffled, as if something is blocking his windpipe. He bares his teeth, fangs extended at their full length and he is heaving so hard his entire body is shuddering with the force of it.

“Fuck, Derek, I need to – open your mouth, please-“ Stiles is saying and then falters when Derek does so, because the dark cavern of his mouth is empty. “What-“

Stiles sees it, barely, the frayed edges of possible fabric at the back of Derek’s throat and it is everything Stiles has to keep standing.

“They pushed it – god, Derek, it’s down your _throat_.” Stiles makes a helpless noise, his arms restless by his sides and Derek is watching him, eyes trained upon Stiles like he is the only thing keeping him together.

“I have to get it,” Stiles tells him, “god Derek, just – okay, just open your mouth, yeah, wide like that and I’ll-“

He should think about this more, he should, really – maybe there are a pair of pliers that he can use or clamps or tongs but Stiles isn’t thinking anymore. He reaches up and extends his (thankfully) long fingers into Derek’s open mouth. He feels the scrape of pointed teeth score the back of his hand, the thin skin on his knuckles being torn up but fuck, he can’t think about that now – it’s so fucking  _deep_. Derek pushes forward and Stiles’ wrist is being shredded, he just knows it but-

He catches the edge of the cloth, soaked and ragged and then he is pulling, dragging the deadly obtrusion from Derek’s throat, out of his mouth and Derek makes the most wretched noise that Stiles has ever heard – thick and raw and desperate.

“God, Derek, it’s okay, it’s okay now it’s- you can breathe-“

Derek’s body convulses violently as black bile spews from his mouth, splashing against Stiles’ neck as he rushes to steady Derek. There’s so much of it, _so much_ , and Stiles fights back the urge to gag as the burnt smell of sulfur rushes into his nostrils. He hears Derek wretch again, over his shoulder, Derek’s whole body shuddering, straining against the ropes that keep him upright, arms pulled taut above him.

Stiles is still trembling, the river of adrenaline pushing through his veins  making his movements jerky and unpredictable, as if he doesn’t know how to move his limbs properly anymore. He pushes to the toes of his shoes and reaches up, scrabbling at the ropes.

Derek’s entire weight collapses onto Stiles as he breaks the bonds. His fingertips are utterly ruined but Derek is panting against his neck, breathing him in like he's dying and Stiles doesn’t even care that his right shoulder is mottled with blood and probably without skin.

He grapples at Derek’s shoulders, tries to right him so he can see Derek’s face but Derek tenses and snaps his teeth as Stiles’ fingers skim over his cheek.

“Stiles-“ he takes in a ragged breath, trying to gain control and the fangs slowly retract behind ink-smeared lips. His voice is thick and gritty when he says, “Stiles, your  _hands_  – I can’t-“

Stiles pales and he looks down at his slick-red fingers, as if they belong to someone else. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, right, the wolfsbane-“

He shuffles across the floor with Derek’s weight, eases him down into the chair that he had just been bound to, tries not to shudder about that.

The water from the basin spurts out brown murky liquid and Stiles doesn’t even care, just scrubs at his hands like he can physically remove his skin if he tries hard enough.

Then he’s down on his knees in front of Derek, a hand on Derek’s knee as he peers up into his face. A string of black bile hangs from the corner of Derek’s open mouth, drips onto Stiles’ cheek.

“Derek, what can I-“

Derek wraps a hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, brutally tight and just hauls him in, face pressing into his neck. Stiles stills, because he knows that Derek needs this, knows what Derek  _saw_.

“He didn’t do anything,” Stiles whispers, although he knows that that is not true, not entirely. But he says it anyway. “He didn’t. I’m okay. I’m okay.”

-

It’s an uncoordinated mess trying to get Derek up the stairs. Because Stiles can’t stop shaking and Derek can barely stand on his feet. But he manages to get them both up the stairway without falling, without dropping Derek and Stiles is gripping onto him so hard he thinks that he is probably causing the man more pain than help.

Stiles kicks the door open with his foot and it hinges open, rusty metal groaning much too loud, so very loud and Stiles winces, holds his breath and waits for the werewolves to appear and rip Derek from his arms. He thinks that he might be teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack, which he’s been waiting for since he woke up to Derek standing by the window. It takes him a moment to recognize the paint chipping on the walls of the small building, for his brain to settle down and be smart, _calm down Stiles, don’t_ lose _it Stiles_ , and realize that they had never left the motel at all.

His voice is tight with horror. “Shit, Derek, this must – this must be a front for them, a cover. Oh my god, they knew we were here the whole time!" 

“Stiles,” Derek rasps. He is slumped against Stiles’ side, his right arm slung about Stiles’ shoulders and he can’t seem to lift his head. “Room.”

Stiles nods jerkily; he doesn’t have the _luxury_ to freak out and he shoves it away. He pulls out Derek’s keys from his pants pocket when they are at the front lot of the motel and it’s so peaceful, soft pale colors of rising sunlight scattering across the gleaming cars.

He deposits Derek’s limp body into the passenger side of the Camaro. It’s a little awkward and bloody to be sure and Derek’s shirt is impossibly ruined, hanging in tattered strips from his body.

Derek’s hand catches the hem of Stiles’ sleeve as he makes to go.

“Stiles,” he says, breathes out the word like it is the most laborious thing his body can do.

“I’ll be right back,” Stiles tells him, “I’m going to go get our stuff – just stay here, Derek. God damnit, like you’re in any sort of shape to carry anything.”

Derek’s head falls to the side, as if he is trying to shake his head but cannot manage even that slight a movement.

“Shoulder-“  he pants.

Stiles bites his lip. He isn’t going to say that he hasn’t been able to feel his shoulder for a while now, because he is pretty sure that the pain is so fierce that it’s just numbed itself over, like it couldn’t go any further and just shattered and defaulted to lack of senses completely. It’s going to be a bitch when the adrenaline wears off, Stiles can tell.

“It’s fine. Just sit there, please, I can’t – I can’t worry about you dropping dead to your feet on me. So please, Derek, just sit there with the door locked and I’ll be  _right back_.”

-

Stiles tries not to pay attention to the state of the room, he tries, desperately. But his eyes keep flickering around like they are not under his control. He nearly slips and crashes into the side table when his foot makes contact with something slick on the floor, and his hand claws against the wall to steady himself.

When he brings it back to his face it’s covered in blood, thick and gleaming wetly against his pale skin.

The room is bathed in weak sunlight and he wonders again how long they had been in that cellar because Stiles knows that the motel room was dark when he had first awoken to thudding pulse of fear and now – he can feel the dull rays of sunlight against his back, and the room is splashed in an array of pale lavender and pink shadows.

The sheets on the bed are shredded and he doesn’t understand why, because he had been thrown against the floor and Derek had been nowhere near the bed; the TV is destroyed, glass splintered across the floor as it lies dejectedly on its side. There’s blood, there’s too much blood everywhere – thick splotches blooming on the carpet that squish beneath his shoes  and on the walls – jagged slices of black-red that color the faded wallpaper like a mad artist’s painting.

His hands shake as he shoves his clothes into his duffle bag and of course all of Derek’s clothes are neatly stowed away, which is probably a good thing because Stiles is pretty sure that he is leaving smeared bloody remnants on everything he touches. He stumbles into the bathroom, grabs their toothbrushes and the nearly all squeezed tube of toothpaste and the complimentary bottles of shampoo and conditioner because he’s not sure where they are going next and the edges of his hair feel stiff and hardened.

He doesn’t dare look into the mirror on the way out.

-

They are silent on the drive from Motel Palace. And Stiles is half grateful for that but he is still on edge, can't sit still and keeps tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, twitchy and erratic and the soft leather is starting to feel tacky from the blood drying on Stiles’ hands.

Derek is breathing too quietly and every once in a while Stiles has to throw a glance at him, to make sure that his chest is rising and falling as it should be. Derek only stirs when they finally get to a motel on the side of the road. The gas gauge of the Camaro is teetering on empty and getting stranded in the middle of nowhere only makes that bubble of hysteria rise in his throat. He thinks, hopes desperately, that they are far out enough from the outskirts of the pack’s territory but Stiles can't tell, he doesn’t know how to _sense_ that everything is alright. He has no idea how long they've been driving and he thinks that he might go crazy at any moment.

“Wait here,” Stiles tells Derek, shifting out of the seat. He changes his mind as he's halfway out the door and twists back around to his duffle bag in the back seat. He lets out a bitter swear as the wound in his shoulder gleefully makes its presence known.

“Fuck, I think I'm getting blood all over your car.” Stiles mutters, yanking on a clean hoodie with disgruntled uncoordinated movements.

“Stiles...” Derek’s voice sounds like a hard rasp, as if he's been screaming for too long, although Stiles tells himself that that's _not_ the reason. But he still doesn’t know what had happened to Derek when he was unconscious.

“Shut up, I'll clean it tomorrow.”

Derek sighs, and Stiles hates the death rattle that echoes in his chest.

“You're not going in there alone.”

Stiles snorts. Exhaustion has segwayed into anger and he scrubs a hand over his own face.

“I am not dragging your half-dead corpse to the front desk so they can think I just murdered someone and am bringing them to the shitiest motel I could find to finish the job. Christ, I can't even imagine what I look like myself.” Stiles pulls up his hood, still refuses to meet the aftermath of his reflection.

“So just - please, just _shut the fuck up_ and let me go get us a room.”

Stiles slams the door behind him and stalks off in the direction of the tiny hanging sign that bids him “Welcome.”

He tells himself that Derek will still be there when he returns.

-

The man behind the counter is thin and waif like, and when he moves towards the front desk Stiles wonders if it's possible that he's made of tissue paper, void of tangible flesh and bone and in such could never be hurt at all.

Maybe his feet do not even touch the floor and maybe he's just floating to wherever he needs to go.

“How many?” the man asks in a languid tone, brows raising above drooping eyes. The cheap white lights of the room glint across the front of his frameless glasses.

“One,” Stiles says.

The man nods, the movement like slow motion, as if underwater. Stiles’ brain _feels_ like it is underwater. Maybe the floor really had opened up beneath them in that place. Maybe they're all slowly drowning undersea.

Stiles realizes, dully, that the man is waiting for an answer. But Stiles doesn't remember having heard a question.

“Uhm- what?” He says, trying to push the water from his ears.

“One or two beds?” The man repeats.

Stiles hesitates. It's possible, more than possible, that Derek would want his own bed to sleep in, untouched, where his body can be left alone to heal. Stiles knows that whenever he has felt sick in the past that the thought of being touched always made him feel testy. So maybe Derek wants to be left alone too. But that thought makes his throat swell once again, because the imagery of being even a few feet away from Derek is unbearable.

So he clears the anxiety from his throat and says, “One. One bed.”

Derek’s weight is a heavy pressure against his own as he guides him into the room, on the first floor. It’s an easy escape if need be (not that that theory turned out so well the first time) but Stiles is too tired to manage Derek any further than the closest possible distance. He eases Derek to the mattress, jogs back to the car to get their bags and his grip on the handles feels loose and numb.

Derek is trying to ease out of his shirt when Stiles returns, but his movements are stiff and slow in the dim light and on the second attempt of trying to pull the shirt up his arms he gives up, hands falling heavily to his lap.

“Let me-“ Stiles stutters forward, hands shaking as they curl around the hemline, slowly dragging the garment up Derek’s stomach and chest. He hooks his hands under Derek’s elbows and coaxes his arms up, and they are so heavy and Derek grunts, the muscles in his shoulders quivering as he forces his arms above his head so Stiles can relieve him of the ruined mess of fabric.

“Here,” Stiles murmurs, his palm cradling the back of Derek's head as he guides him down against the pillow. 

Derek’s eyes are still closed beneath his furrowed brows. He hasn't seemed to have been able to open them for a while now.

Stiles tugs at the knots of Derek’s boots, sliding them off and then Derek’s socks to follow, which are soaked in blood and Stiles almost loses it at that, his hands shaking as he balls them up and _flings_ them into the wastebasket across the room.

“Are you, uhm,” Stiles puts his hands in his pockets, steps back feeling uncomfortable and awful and so utterly _useless_. “Do you need to shower?”

Derek shakes his head.

“Sleep,” he mutters. “Heal.”

Stiles nods, worries his bottom lip.

There is a tiny smear of black blood at the corner of Derek’s mouth and Stiles wants to wipe it away but he doesn’t.

“I'll just- uhm, I'll be right back.”

He tugs a fresh shirt from his duffle bag and the first aid kit he always brings with him, because apparently shit like this is always wont to happen despite _where_ they go.

The lights of the bathroom are harsh and unforgiving. Stiles lets the door click softly behind him, to keep that obtrusive light from breaking upon Derek, but more so he doesn’t want Derek to _see_ , to turn his head and see the state of Stiles’ body.

The boy in front of him looks too young and gaunt, cheek bones jutting against thin skin. The left side of his face is utterly ruined, blood vessels split open and broken, causing the flesh to mottle black-red and there is a gash that he does not remember receiving split against his cheek bone. He doesn’t recognize the hollow eyes staring unseeingly beneath the slope of his brows, or maybe he does, and that in itself is painful because he hasn’t looked that way since before Derek had touched the back of his hand and kissed him all those months ago.

He sighs, the sound shifting through his lungs as a quiet heavy rasp. His shirt is torn and hardened at the edges from blood and black bile. It’s not worth salvaging so he takes the tiny scissor from the kit and slowly cuts a line down the length his torso, wincing when he realizes that the fabric at his shoulder has already dried into the broken skin. He tugs, breaks open the wound and has to bite down on his lip _hard_ to keep the string of curses from tearing from his mouth. A few more trembling pulls and the fabric refuses to yield, so Stiles ends up cutting around it and taking a small rag from the sink, wetting it hot and gently scrubbing at the stains of ink blood on his throat. It’s covered the open sore from where Daniel had sunken his teeth into Stiles’ neck and he almost regrets revealing it to himself, like a stamp of guilt impressed into his skin. He can’t look at it, at the swollen jagged edges of flesh, the crude impress of teeth and the stretched gashes from where Daniel had dragged his teeth.

Stiles eventually ends up dropping the rag back into the sink with a heavy sigh, ignores the way the off-white porcelain is stained watery streaks of black, the little clots of blood that gather around the drain. He strips off the rest of his clothes, turns on the shower as hot as it will go and steps inside.

It turns out to be a horrible idea. The pain in his shoulder flares angrily, white spots bursting behind his eyelids as the steady stream of water scorches the broken gashes across his face and neck and shoulder, the back of his wrist where Derek’s teeth had torn apart the skin. He stumbles forwards, clamping a hand over his mouth to smother a silent scream, feet slipping over the tiles as he braces himself against the wall, sucking in air through his fingers, gasping in what he hopes is not loud enough for Derek to hear. He slumps to his knees, a slow drag against the cool tiles, which feels a welcome relief against the heat building beneath his skin.

“Shit,” he whispers, shaking full-bodily as he twists the dial with a shiver. Stiles grits his teeth and staggers back to his feet because _fuck this_ , he can do it tomorrow. He will be of no help to Derek if he ends up passing out and cracking his head against the floor.

It’s easy enough bandaging the wound on his neck, a little less easy wrapping strips of gauze over his wrist, and turns out to be near impossible to tape up his shoulder with only one hand but he manages. He leaves his face be, hisses at the sting of the disinfectant and then slips into his underwear and shirt.

His jeans are left slung over the chair as he leaves the bathroom.

Stiles’ mind feels heavy and it hurts, it hurts too much everywhere and it's like his thoughts are as bruised and sore as the rest of his body. He realizes, regrettably, that he should have asked for two beds. Because Derek hasn't moved at all, and Stiles knows that he really shouldn't try and clamor in beside him; that would be selfish, Derek needs to _heal_. He contemplates whether or not he should go to the front desk and ask for another room or camp out in the incredibly awkward and hard looking chair that his jeans are crumpled on. 

He is standing there in the darkness and he's not sure what sort of rationalization he is trying to form, he's just staring at the blinds, the tiny slits of blue that peak through and he can't seem to breathe. Because he is sure that the door will come crashing off its hooks again, that the man with the pale blond hair will be there before him again, smiling with those beautiful grey eyes and Stiles won't be able to move, just like last time, he won't be able to help Derek.

“Stiles, come here.”

Stiles jumps, turns his face towards Derek with owlish eyes.

“You're awake.”

The line of Derek’s profile nods faintly. His body looks like it has solidified into stone unable to move. Or like something too aged and fragile, a crumpled heap sunken amongst the sheets.

“Come here.”

Stiles wills his feet to move, shifts towards the side of the bed. He stands there, watches Derek's chest go up and down, up and down, up _and then we all crash down_.

Derek’s fingers are warm around his wrist. He tugs but Stiles can scarcely feel it.

Derek’s eyelids flutter, two slivers of pale green in the weak nightlight.

“Why?” He whispers.

“I don't know.” Stiles says, he feels so lost. “I don’t know,” he repeats. “I don't know how to help you.”

Derek shakes his head. “Next to me,” he tells Stiles. “Just next to me.”

Stiles makes a helpless noise, small and smothered in the darkness. But then Derek pulls, again, a little stronger this time and Stiles crawls in on his side beside him.

He doesn't know where to put his hand and he knows that he shouldn’t be so distraught about this but he _is_. Derek’s chest is smooth and skin without blemish but Stiles doesn't know what's going on beneath it all, if the muscles are still healing and if bones are still broken and misplaced  and pressing up against tender-sore skin. He doesn't know where to put his _hand_.

So Derek does it for him, guides Stiles’ hand flat over his chest.

Stiles is thankful for the angle of the bed, that he can lay on his left shoulder instead of his right, which is absolutely ruined and no amount of Advil is going to be able to dull the pain tonight.

He focuses on the soft pulse of Derek’s heart beneath his cheek, which isn't steady at all, sometimes speeding up and then slowing down to a pace that nearly makes Stiles start to shake. 

But Derek is drawing slow, circular patterns on the back of Stiles’ wrist, above the bandages, and Stiles thinks that this is _alright_ , that Derek just might be alright.

“You're healing okay?” He asks in a voice that sounds too small, as if he is afraid to disturb the silence, afraid to make their presence known.

Derek hums in the back of his throat.

“Can you - you can breathe alright? Are your lungs... They're healing?”

Derek nods, eyes closed and he gives Stiles' wrist a small squeeze.

“Don't worry about me,” he says quietly, in a tone that Stiles recognizes as harboring so much more than what he is saying.

Stiles swallows, licks his lips slowly. There is a small still-soft scab of blood at the corner of his mouth and it breaks and fills his mouth again.

“I want you to know,” he tells Derek uneasily, “I'm alright too. I am. He didn't do anything to me. Not really. People have been, groped before. It's nothing... It's not going to traumatize me. You get that, right Derek? You don't have to be afraid to touch me.”

Derek is silent. Stiles feels the pace of his heart quicken, race terribly, before settling again. 

“I couldn't stop it,” says Derek, and his voice is rough, tight.

Stiles sighs, because he knew that this onslaught of guilt would occur with Derek. He had just thought, _hoped_ , that Derek would have waited until his lungs were no longer decimated beneath a shattered ribcage.

“Look, this wasn't your fault. And I really do not want to have this talk with you because it's stupid and pointless. We made a judgment error - both of us. We got lazy and too comfortable and we made a mistake. But we survived it. We’re both here and we just – we have to do better next time. We’ll _do better_ , okay, Derek?”

Stiles pushes up to his elbow, which makes him all but hiss in pain but he swallows that down.

Derek’s eyes lift open, his gaze passing over Stiles’ face and Stiles knows how shitty he looks, wishes that he didn't, if only so Derek didn't have to see.

“I'm alright.” He says softly.

Derek reaches up, his fingers not quite touching the broken and swollen flesh beneath Stiles’ eye.

“You'll tell me,” Derek says, “if-“ he stops, jaw working and Stiles sees the muscle clench. “You'll tell me if you don't want it - if you'd rather not-“

“It's _not like that_ ,” He stresses, lifting his hand to curl around Derek's, firmly, but gently too. “I may not have liked it but I'm okay. Don't you dare treat me like a victim, like someone who can't handle –“ he breathes out through his nose, closes his eyes. “If you stop touching me, I'll hate you for it. That's the worst thing you could do to me.”

Derek's eyes flicker back and forth, as if trying to search out the truth in Stiles’ bruised and ruined face. But Stiles' heartbeat has not faltered and Stiles knows that Derek can hear the truth in that.

He nods, faintly.

Stiles exhales, the noise sounding too loud in the room but it feels better, somehow. It feels better inside his chest.

“Good,” he says softly, and bends his face down slowly, lets his mouth rest gently upon Derek's.

-

Stiles wakes to an empty bed. There is an obtrusive light glaring through the thin curtains by the window, right below where the edge of the fabric meets the window sill, and Stiles squints and rolls his face away, curling into the open spot where Derek had been sleeping. He can feel his heartbeat triple at that and when he opens his eyes he tells himself to _calm down_ , because the room is just as they had left it the night before. His jeans are still slung over the rickety chair near the bathroom door, and it is intact and so are their bags near the scuffed wooden desk and the walls are clean.

He breathes out, because that is important, to _breathe_.

When he pushes up with his hand there is a sudden explosion of pain that radiates from his shoulder, bursting through his skin as the tight, tortured muscle clenches beneath loosened bandages. A curse falls from his mouth and he brings his hand gingerly to the wound.

He winces and that is a mistake as well because he is suddenly reminded of the state of his face. There is a dull throb that pulses against his cheekbone, and the skin feels feverish and tender beneath his fingertips. He doesn’t remember being hit and he doesn’t remember his face hitting the floor hard enough to warrant the gash he feels open beneath his curious touch.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

The door opens then, and his spine snaps erect, left hand gripping tight into the sheets.

“You’re awake,” Derek says quietly from where he is standing. He looks clean and immaculate, stoic composure held in the hard lines of his body, the broadness of his shoulders – as if he hadn’t been a shuddering mess the night before.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes out, a swell of relief and jittery nerves causing his body to sag. “I see you’re back to your normal self.”

Derek nods, his face unreadable. He’s holding a grocery bag in one hand and a cardboard holder with two cups of coffee in the other. He lifts the bag slightly – there’s brown paper lining the inside and it bulges as if full of –

“I brought you Chinese food.”

Stiles gapes at him.

Morning sunlight is pouring through the open doorway and into the room, particles of dust ghosting around Derek.

And then Stiles laughs, the sound breaking from his mouth and he laughs again and shakes his head, hand coming up to cover his mouth.

Derek’s mouth tugs at the corner and when Stiles manages to look up at him again, his eyes seem slightly softer.

“You’re ridiculous,” Stiles says, but he doesn’t mean it at all. “For breakfast?”

Derek gives a slow shrug of his shoulder.

“Thought you might like it,” he says quietly.

Stiles watches Derek’s expression, the way his body moves a little uneasily, as if he isn’t sure where to put himself and when he turns his back to close the door, Stiles says in a soft tone, “C’mere.”

Derek sits on the bed, his body facing away from Stiles, weight causing the mattress to sag a little.

His shoulders slump forward and Stiles places a hand flat against the tense muscles, rests his cheek there as well.

“Thank you.” he tells him.

-

The food doesn’t taste very good. But Stiles doesn’t mention it and Derek is silent as he eats, eyes cast downward. Stiles is chewing with a little less vigor himself. He thinks that this shouldn’t be awkward, that they said all that needed to be broached the night before but he still feels like his body is not fully his own, as if someone else had occupied it and now that he has settled back into his skin he has to relearn everything again.

Derek leaves the last spring roll for Stiles because they’re Stiles’ favorite. But Stiles isn’t hungry and his tongue feels like its lost its ability to taste. Derek puts away the boxes when they’re finished, stows away the napkins and untouched fortune cookies into the brown paper bag and sets it by the small wastebasket by the door. He hands Stiles a bottle of water and three Advil when he returns to the bed.

Stiles gives a half smile and a nod. The water tastes stale and his throat is too dry despite being coated by the liquid and he reaches out and grasps Derek’s wrist when he moves away.

“I’ll be right back,” Derek murmurs, gently curling his fingers around Stiles’ as he pulls his wrist away. He returns from the bathroom a few minutes later with a damp towelette and settles his weight beside Stiles.

Stiles snags his bottom lip in his teeth.

He’s not looking at Derek. His chest feels thick, too tight and he doesn't want Derek to see his face, now that he's so close. He feels guilty suddenly, a thick nausea that rises in chest and fills his lungs, like he's done something terribly wrong. Like broken a promise or told a lie or stolen something precious from someone.

“I can do it,” he hears himself say, voice too soft.

Derek shakes his head.

“You can’t see.”

Derek’s hands are large and broad and sometimes when he clenches them into fists they terrify Stiles with the strength that they posses. Derek can break things so easily, and without any thought but when he touches Stiles he does so as if Stiles is something fragile and dear to him. It makes Stiles’ heart tighten in his chest, makes his throat swell so that it feels like he cannot breathe.

Derek’s eyes flicker to Stiles’ and there is concern pinched between his brows.

“Okay?” he asks, hesitantly touching the damp hot cloth against the gash beneath Stiles’ eye.

Stiles nods, wishes Derek would speak more because he is close enough that when he talks his breath skates across Stiles’ jaw. It feels reassuring in a way that Stiles cannot quite explain. He reaches blindly for Derek’s leg, curls his hand over his knee when he finds it and takes purchase in the strong muscle against his palm.

“I didn't want it,” Stiles tells him, quietly, although he doesn't know why. But the silence hurts like it's crushing around him with cold spindly fingers. “I didn't want any of it.”

Derek looks broken open.

“I know.”

"I wanted to _save_ you,” Stiles says. He means to say more. But he can't get the words past his throat.  I wanted to be better. I wanted to be someone that you could _rely_ on.

Derek is silent for a long while, and Stiles thinks that maybe Derek’s used up all the words that he is capable of.

 “You look terrible.” Derek says, right when Stiles is about to open his mouth again. He's frowning over the mottled bruises across Stiles’ cheek.

Stiles gives a short laugh because sometimes Derek surprises him.

“Yeah, I thought I was gonna have to pay someone to remodel my face there for a bit.” Stiles tries to play it off with a shrug.  “Maybe I’ll have Lydia give me lessons in the ways of make-up or whatever it is girls put on their faces.”

Derek’s face still is in a frown, thoughtful.

Stiles worries the corner of his mouth, and the scab breaks again. He can’t seem to look into Derek’s face, chances an uneasy glance through his lashes.

“I was,” he shifts slightly on the mattress. “I thought you were gonna die in there.” He tries to turn his face away, because suddenly he feels too young and exposed and Derek is too close. But Derek’s hand has cupped his jaw, holding him still.

“I thought he was going to do worse to you,” Derek says quietly, after a moment.

Stiles lifts his head up at that and he feels his cheeks reddening, because yeah, he thought - he thought Daniel was going to do good on his threat too. And Stiles is not sure how he would have been able to cope with the aftereffects of that. But he says anyway, with a laugh that comes out empty and without humour, “Yeah, well... At least I still would have been alive, right?” He feigns for a smile. “That would have been better than me being dead. That...” He makes a motion with his hand, because he isn't sure how to say it, if he should. “There are a lot worse things that could happen to a person than being-  raped. Being dead, that would be worse, right?”

Derek’s lips purse together and he says, harshly, “Don't say that. Don't say it like it wouldn't have mattered.”

Stiles looks at him in faint surprise.

“I only meant-“

“It would have been _terrible_ ,” Derek grates out, his hand dropping the rag and moving to the back of Stiles’ neck, that familiar possessive hold forcing Stiles against his chest. He pants into Derek's throat, heart trembling erratically against his ribcage. “You say that it would have been bad for you to watch me die - having to watch him touch you like that, force you - that would have been _terrible_ for me, Stiles. Terrible for _you_.”

Stiles doesn't know what to say. Because there is so much intensity in Derek's voice that it scares him.

“I never want to see anyone hurt you like that,” Derek sounds _wrecked_. He is holding Stiles so hard that it feels like his bones are grinding against one another.  “I would never – I _never_ want anyone to hurt you like that.”

“....okay,” Stiles says, breathing carefully. He lets his hands drift to Derek's elbows, cautiously. “Okay, I know, Derek, I know.” He curls his fingers around Derek’s arms, let’s them rest folded around the tense muscles and he rubs the pads of his fingers over Derek’s skin, again and again, and whispers, like a mantra, “I’m okay, Derek. It’s okay – I’m okay.”

-

They leave the motel by mid afternoon, after Stiles has showered and Derek has helped change the bandage on Stiles’ shoulder, even though Stiles vehemently objects.

“I’m perfectly capable-“

“You _aren’t_ ,” Derek replies firmly, and the way his eyes have Stiles pinned leaves no room for argument.

-

They don't drive through any of the large cities. They pass through a small town, population 2,312 and the streets are mostly quiet and unattractive but Derek just drives on through, past miles of open fields of corn, a golden river that blurs past Stiles' vision. They stop at a diner and eat burgers and fries. Derek doesn't comment that Stiles doesn't reach over and steal any of his, as he so usually does; Stiles doesn't mention that Derek hasn't touched him in almost 48 hours.

Derek requests a room with two beds at the small hotel they finally stop at and Stiles cannot stop the hurt that tightens in his chest at the mention of _two beds_ , not _one_. He bites his lip and says nothing, a fidgety presence of unease and tangled nerves that Derek seems to sense. So Derek stops when they gather their bags and tells the owner, _one bed, not two_ and touches the back of Stiles' wrist as they pass through the lobby doors.

-

Stiles tries and fails miserably at taking off his shirt. His bones do not feel like a solid presence in his body, all loose-limbed and useless and his muscles feel stretched and old. Aged by exhaustion and thoughts that make his head fall forward. He's so tired he can barely stand anymore.

Derek is behind him, no warning sound of shoes on the carpet but Stiles can feel him by the familiar heat that brushes along the back of his neck. Derek gently eases the material over Stiles’ head, up his arms to where Derek grasps Stiles’ wrists, letting the shirt fall softly to the floor as he keeps his hands curled around the slender bones, fingers tracing the angry red welts. Stiles lets Derek guide his hands to where he wants them to go, down against his sides. Stiles breathes out, lets the tension slip from his lips, his eyes fluttering closed as Derek takes his weight, Stiles’ shoulders fitting against the strong  breadth of Derek's chest.

“Derek,” Stiles breathes out. It hurts to say his name, although Stiles doesn’t understand why.

Derek spreads his hands open against Stiles’ shoulders, palms a flat warm pressure against his skin, which feels paper-thin against his bones. He thumbs the muscle at the nape of Stiles’ neck, folds his hands around Stiles’ arms and holds him still, as if Stiles might try to move away. But Stiles can barely stay upright on his feet, and he reaches back blindly and tightens his hands on Derek's hips for purchase, fingers digging weakly into the hard denim. Derek’s mouth is open and damp as it searches the path of Stiles’ neck, breath soft and a little urgent and Stiles can feel the thump of Derek's heart vibrating through his shoulder blades, a steadying mantra that Stiles concentrates on and tries to match his own breathing to. Derek spreads his hands against Stiles’ naked chest, stills when Stiles twitches, tenses slightly, before relaxing again, and those large warm palms slide further down, press flat against Stiles’ stomach, urging him back closer into Derek's body in quiet gentle demand.

Derek breathes against Stiles’ neck, and Stiles lets his head fall back against Derek's shoulder, mouth open slightly as Derek’s scent drags along his tongue, that pulsing heat climbing the bumps of his spine.

“Derek…?” Stiles whispers again, goose bumps pebbling beneath Derek’s mouth.

Derek grinds the heel of his palm into Stiles' stomach, too much pressure and Stiles whimpers slightly, but it doesn’t hurt and he doesn't want Derek to stop. He feels like he’s fraying at the edges, the lines of his body blurring around him and he can't find anything to anchor himself to. He wants Derek to make his body feel tangible again, that it's not disappearing and thinning into something too small that might slip between the gaps of Derek's fingers.

"I'm afraid I'm going to break you,” Derek confesses and Stiles says, “You can’t." 

He doesn't tell Derek that you can’t break something that is no longer whole.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading. :)


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